


You want me to leave it there

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:52:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Maybe I’m not your partner,” said Vince. “Maybe I’m your companion.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You want me to leave it there

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janet_carter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janet_carter/gifts).



When the scaring yokels spree came to its inevitable conclusion, Vince was somewhat at a loss for what to do next.

 

Stuart, obviously, had no such doubts. “We’ll take it,” he said to the landlady, grinned wide without showing his teeth, and somehow they found themselves, in June of 2001, in possession of a second floor Chicago flat.

 

“But,” said Vince, “Chicago? Gangsters and them. And in the winter it’s fucking freezing.”

 

“Vince,” said Stuart, standing at the window and surveying their kingdom (a view across the street at something called Egor’s Dungeon). “Live a little.”

 

It really was a step down, for Stuart at least. Vintage. Paint peeling around the baseboard. Carryout downstairs. Not to mention that unearthly, intermittent, rattling roar. “Live a little?” said Vince. “May be too late. I think the world’s ending. What’s that sound?”

 

“The train,” said Stuart. “A train a block away.” He turned around, finally, and smiled, for real this time. “This is Canal Street, Vince, but in a real fucking city for a change.”

 

“It couldn’t’ve been New York? San Francisco? It had to be _Chicago_?”

 

“Don’t be such a twat,” said Stuart. “Help me unpack.”

 

Stuart found a job right away. It was easy for him, talking his way into any sort of position.

 

“Fucking _hospitality services_ ,” said Stuart, beaming, lifting his drink high in victory. “A _hotel_! All those beds. I’ll shag myself to death.”

 

“Ha ha,” said Vince. He was forever getting an elbow in the ribs from the group new to them at the bar. He missed Alexander. He missed _Hazel_. They would’ve shoved right back. “You wouldn’t. You’d be sacked.”

 

“I’ll put fifty quid on it, I could get away with it.”

 

“Meaningless currency,” said Vince. “You know you can’t win.”

 

“I could. Irishmen are gods here,” said Stuart. “Didn’t you know?”

 

Stuart was a god no matter where he went, but he didn’t need Vince pointing out what he already knew. Instead, Vince raised his glass. “Congratulations, Mr. Something High Up at the Palmer House Hotel.”

 

The elbow caught him in the back again and his drink poured out over them both.

 

That night, Vince went back to the flat alone after Stuart copped off with a blond man he met while spot-cleaning his shirt. He read through the classifieds and circled a few that looked promising. Then he went to bed. He didn’t hear Stuart come in, but he woke in the morning to the sound of Stuart clanking about in their miniscule kitchen, making tea and doing things with toast.

 

They ate breakfast together.

 

Maybe he was stupid, but it was months before Vince realized. They’d settled down. They’d stopped moving. They’d got a _flat_. He lay in bed at night, eyes wide open, listening to Stuart in the next room gently breathing and moving about in his sleep and tried to work it out. Because there _was_ a game. There had to be.

 

**

 

In September, he rang Hazel as soon as the phone lines unjammed.

 

“I could kill you,” she said tearfully-but-hating-it into the phone. “You don’t ring for a year and a half and this is what it takes? I have to spend a day watching the telly and wondering whether you’re dead?”

 

“Not dead,” said Vince. “I’m not even in New York. Never made it there. We’re in the middle. Chicago.”

 

“Bloody hell, Vince,” said Bernie, abruptly picking up the extension. “Hazel was that worried. The whole street took up a collection.”

 

“For what?” said Vince.

 

“Buggered if I know,” said Bernie, around a great rasping cough. “Habit.”

 

“‘We’?” said Hazel. “Is Stuart still with you, then?”

 

She needn’t sound so skeptical, Vince thought. Stuart was still there, still working for Hilton, still riding the Red Line because he couldn’t be arsed to find parking. Still going out from time to time and coming back smelling like different blokes but never, to Vince’s surprise, bringing anyone back to their shared flat with their separate bedrooms.

 

“Still,” said Vince.

 

“Fuck it,” said Bernie.

 

“That’s ten quid you owe me!” said Hazel.

 

It was difficult to explain, most of all to the overzealous girls Vince trained over November, who saw Stuart and Vince out together on Halsted and were falling over themselves to say the right thing. “You guys are really cute,” one of them wound up saying, at the same time as another, flustered beyond belief, finally set down her mojito and said, “I support you!”

 

Vince would’ve thought Stuart would eat her alive. Instead, he put on his mock-serious face, the one where his forehead went almost upside down with the effort of it all, and took her hand, saying, “Thank you. God bless you,” and let her go. The girls giggled off together into the darkness of the club and Stuart aimed an incredulous grin at Vince. “Christ,” he said, “look where we’ve landed.”

 

“America,” said Vince, and took a long drink.

 

It was difficult to explain, all the more so when Stuart did things like show up at Treasure Island, where Vince was now a manager, with a bouquet of flowers and a violinist in tow.

 

“Who,” said Daron, who worked behind the deli counter, “is that.”

 

Vince knew that whatever he said Stuart would say the exact opposite, so he kept his mouth shut. The violinist parked himself in front of Vince and Stuart stood off to the side with the bouquet and the violinist launched straight into an instrumental version of “Take a Chance on Me.” Daron clasped his hands over his heart. Vince stood and waited for the punch line. The thing was, he’d done stuff like this in Manchester, Stuart had, and it never meant anything then either. It was just a laugh. A good long laugh at Vince’s expense.

 

He’d thought they’d _left_ all of that back in Manchester.

 

The violinist finished and Stuart stepped forward and, with a flourish, handed the flowers to Vince. “For you, darling,” he said.

 

“You fucker,” Vince said through grinning, clenched teeth.

 

**

 

The reason for the flowers was the Annual Palmer House Employee Holiday Party. That’s what they were called in America: Holiday Parties. That was another thing Vince liked. There were so many holidays to go around that they had to cram them all together into one multipurpose party.

 

Or, as Stuart put it, “It’s the PC thing. They do it better here.”

 

The Annual Palmer House Employee Holiday Party was, this year, held not in Miller’s Pub next door but in the main ballroom. This was a highly unusual occurrence, Vince was given to understand, but Stuart had somehow had a hand in making it happen.

 

“We love that man,” a woman of about their own age said to Vince, gripping his arm the minute he and Stuart came through the doors.

 

“Rosita, hi,” said Stuart, eyeing the room.

 

“No but really,” said Rosita to Vince, who had to stoop a bit to hear her. “Your boyfriend is a godsend.”

 

“ _Is_ he?” said Vince, to Stuart, because _really_.

 

“Yes,” said Rosita emphatically. “I never thought I’d see the day Andrew would let us have the party in here.” She turned to Stuart. “I don’t know what kind of magic you worked but I gotta borrow some of it some day.”

 

“Stick with me,” said Stuart, still in that half-distracted tone he always had for the first ten minutes of any party, when he was still taking in the lay of the land and hadn’t yet decided whether it was worth his while to stay.

 

“You better believe it,” said Rosita. She squeezed Vince’s arm. “Okay. Gotta go. I leave my husband alone too long, he gets antsy.”

 

With Rosita gone, Vince turned to Stuart. “Blowjob, then? Or the full fuck?”

 

He had Stuart’s attention. Sort of. “Vince!” Stuart said, in his mock-fluttery voice. “Warn a fella! Dinner first, maybe dessert—”

 

“I mean with Andrew,” said Vince. “That’s your ‘magic,’ anyway.”

 

“Is it?” said Stuart, serious all of a sudden, and just as suddenly Vince was exasperated. Stuart was impossible to pin down. Vince hadn’t managed it, not really, in all the years he’d known him. The thing with Stuart was he wouldn’t commit to a single conversation. He had to have five at once, while looking five different directions at once.

 

“You know it is,” said Vince.

 

“Then what are you doing here?” said Stuart.

 

**

 

They made friends. Everyone who met them assumed they were a couple, and so at first they made _those_ kinds of friends. Other couples. Quiet types. Girls. Vince would’ve assumed all this friendly attention would drive Stuart mad. Instead, he reveled in it. He didn’t even give them the false smile and the batting eyelashes he’d given those girls, Vince’s trainees. He talked to them like Vince used to sometimes catch him talking to Hazel.

 

The British accent thing was no joke. That what they called it here: a British accent. Even what Stuart had was a British accent, and Stuart didn’t bother to correct them, until a big construction worker heard Trisha compliment Stuart’s “British accent” outside of the Gay 7/11 one evening.

 

A booming, “The fuck?” echoed across the parking lot. “Don’t you know anything?” said the construction worker, dropping his pail and leaving his startled colleagues at their truck. “‘British accents’ didn’t build our bridges! ‘British’ accents didn’t dig our tunnels!”

 

“Neither did I, mate,” said Stuart, shockingly, moving to stand—another shocker—in front of the now quivering Trisha. “I just got here.”

 

“But you could, right?” said the construction worker. “Not like some limeys I could name.”

 

“Oy!” said Vince.

 

Trisha looked unspeakably confused.

 

In the end, they invited Trisha and the construction worker, whose name turned out to be Joseph, to dinner back at the flat. Joseph treated Trisha to a brief history of the Irish in America while Vince tidied up around them and Stuart nipped downstairs for carryout.

 

**

 

2003 began with Stuart’s head in the toilet of the last stall at Spin, and Vince holding a wet paper towel to the back of his neck while their very fit and yet, mysteriously, straight friend, Rick, stood just outside wringing his hands.

 

“We were drink for drink,” said Rick. “I didn’t think this would happen.”

 

“It wasn’t you, Rick,” said Vince. “He’s taken something, probably.”

 

“I’m sorry, anyway,” said Rick.

 

“Y’should be,” came Stuart’s voice, weakly echoing. “Fuck off.”

 

“Shut you face,” said Vince. “Just breathe.” He rubbing Stuart’s back.

 

Rick leaned into the stall and lowered his voice. “Vince, don’t take this the wrong way, but I have some ideas for what your New Year’s resolutions could be.”

 

Vince chuckled. “Let me guess. Chuck all this in and head for the hills?”

 

“No, actually, um,” said Rick. He hesitated in that way only straight guys could hesitate, as if he were working himself up to give voice to something truly open-minded and wanted to say it right. “You just seem right for each other, I think. I think you should give it a shot.”

 

“Wozzat,” slurred Stuart from the bowl.

 

“Really,” said Vince, not entirely convinced Rick wasn’t having him on.

 

“Really,” said Rick, dead serious. “What can it hurt?”

 

The only thing to do with that was laugh.

 

**

 

Three years after they moved into the apartment, Vince woke up to the sound of fucking. It was unmistakable through their thin, shared wall. If there had, nonetheless, been any doubt, those doubts fled the minute Stuart started talking. It was filth, mostly. No surprise there.

 

It was the first time since they’d come here. Vince had thought they had an unspoken agreement not to do this to each other. Or, really, he’d thought they’d had an unspoken agreement that Stuart wouldn’t do this to him.

 

Idiocy. Vince moved to bang on the wall, then thought better of it, and shoved the pillow over his head. A soft thudding continued, and he could still make out what Stuart was saying. He could always make out what Stuart was saying.

 

They didn’t talk about it in the morning, although Vince could tell from the way Stuart was looking at him over those fucking fruit loops that Stuart knew Vince had awoken and knew that Stuart knew.

 

Stuart showered and dressed while Vince washed up. On his way out, he stopped at the door. “Why do you let me?” he said, flatly, no chorus, just his voice.

 

“Right,” said Vince anyway, playing it off. “Nobody _lets_ you though, do they?”

 

“You do,” said Stuart. “You always have.”

 

**

 

Vince turned 35, and it was brilliant.

 

There wasn’t a surprise party, not this time. Even though Stuart faffed about for the longest time, he finally let Vince know the plans when the invitations went out.

 

“Blimey!” said Vince, looking at the stack of simple silver-on-black cards sitting on the kitchen table beside a flotilla of envelopes and a roll of stamps.

 

Please join us

for drinks, dessert, and dancing

in celebration of Vince Tyler’s 35th.

 

Café Brauer at the Lincoln Park Zoo

 

At the bottom was the date and time, and Stuart’s contact information, and a delicately worded threat about what would happen to people who failed to observe black tie.

 

“Help us stuff ‘em, then,” said Stuart, who was sitting at the table in his boxers and the reading glasses he swore he didn’t need.

 

“Stuff yourself,” said Vince. “It’s my party.”

 

Stuart grinned up at him. “Attaboy, Vince.”

 

“How’s this happening, anyway?” said Vince. “You’re not as flush as you were back home.”

 

“Someone owes me a favor,” said Stuart. “I have an inside connection.”

 

On the night of the party, Stuart went ahead to make sure everything was set up, leaving while Vince was still in the shower, and Vince followed on his own, later. He got off the bus at Dickens and as he made his way down to Stockton, crossing into the park, a light fog began to curl between the trees. The lights of Café Brauer looked warm and inviting, and Vince hesitated before crossing the street and took it all in. Here, yes, here, this is where he lived.

 

There was a girl inside to take his coat and then Rosita materialized, seizing Vince by his elbows and pulling him into a crushing hug. “Honey, you look so handsome,” she said. “Here’s hoping you enjoy yourself!”

 

“You’re Stuart’s insider connection?” said Vince.

 

“Sure,” said Rosita. “The man practically got me here. Lied through his teeth down the phone. Best reference I ever had.” She glanced at Vince and laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be a great party. I am so effing good at my job, it’s not even funny.”

 

Rosita led Vince into the main room, which was already nearly full of people. He hadn’t realized he knew this many people in Chicago, but here they all were. Rosita, of course, but she was working. Her husband was there, too, though, standing off to the side and looking fidgety. Daron was there, with his new boyfriend Troy. Rick was there, standing with—oh my God—Joseph and talking about baseball. Trisha was there, with three of her friends. Barry and Rob were there. So was Stephanie. Warren had brought his teenage daughter. Peter and Gregory were making eyes at each other across the profiteroles bar. Alexa and Gwen were clearly doing their best to get sloshed. Sean, Luis, Ben, and Nicole had their voices low and their heads together, but the gestures they made left little question as to the topic of their conversation. Vince was only glad he’d already heard the one about Thunder from Down Under. Maria was there. Cole was there. Nikeya was there.

 

“Well?” said a voice in his ear.

 

Vince turned.

 

Women were the ones who were supposed to peak in their mid-thirties, hadn’t he heard? Men were supposed to be well into their long, slow decline. And yet, and yet. Vince stood there and just breathed in and out because he didn’t trust himself to speak, or move, or do anything really. Anything he did, he’d look, sound, act like a gigantic twat. Stuart was handsomer than he had ever been.

 

“Dunno why I did this,” said Stuart. “The tuxedo, I mean.”

 

Upon closer inspection, Stuart did look singularly uncomfortable, and that gave Vince something to laugh at, and that made everything all right. “Because,” said Vince. “It’s my birthday.”

 

“So it is,” said Stuart, drawing Vince in with a hand on either side of his waist. “So it is.”

 

The drinks were strong, the desserts were sweet and airy, and the dancing was energetic. Vince escaped during “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” to stand on the patio and look out over the pond. The fog had thickened, bringing with it a chill. He buried his hands in his pockets.

 

“So I’m finally going to ask,” said Daron.

 

“Shit!” said Vince, turning. “Give a man a heart attack on his birthday.”

 

“You’re not there yet,” said Daron, detaching from the side of the building and grinding his cigarette under his heel. He joined Vince and they stood in silence together for a while.

 

“Troy seems nice,” said Vince.

 

“He is,” said Daron. “Which is why I have to ask.”

 

“Ask what?” said Vince.

 

“What the fuck kind of dance are the two of you doing?” said Daron. “’Cause baby, I know all kinds of steps but this is one I’ve never seen before.”

 

It wasn’t that no one ever asked, but they rarely did. They mostly just made assumptions and talked amongst themselves. Certainly since leaving Manchester, fewer people said anything at all about it. Vince was out of practice. “I could teach you,” he said.

 

“If you could,” said Daron. “I wouldn’t be with Troy.”

 

“It’s nothing,” said Vince. “It just is.”

 

“How long have you been telling yourself that?” said Daron.

 

“Oh, you know.” Vince forced a laugh. “Over twenty years now.”

 

“I’ve read about this,” said Daron. “This is that British repression bullshit. What is it about you people that you can’t spit it out?”

 

“Don’t let Joseph hear you,” said Vince, because that part was easy.

 

“Who’s Joseph?”

 

“The most wonderful Irish-American you will ever meet,” said Vince. “Stuart isn’t British.”

 

“Oh my God,” said Daron. “I’d like to knock your heads together.”

 

“You wouldn’t be the first,” said Vince.

 

“JESUS!” said Daron, at top volume, and Vince finally realized that underneath the humor and bemusement was some real anger. “You are grown men. It is not cute anymore. It’s painful to watch. Grow some balls.”

 

Vince could feel something bubbling up, warming his chest. Maybe that was anger too. “Does it look like I’m enjoying myself?”

 

“Kind of, yeah,” said Daron. “You get to live with him and I’m guessing that’s not exactly a hardship.”

 

“It’s not a picnic,” said Vince.

 

“Then what the fuck?” said Daron. “This doesn’t have to be it for you, if you don’t want it to be. It’s sad. I’m sad for you.”

 

The door banged open and Stuart and Rosita burst out. “There’s cake, Birthday Boy!” Rosita was calling, and Stuart was laughing, teetering on the edge of drunk. “Get your butt in here!”

 

“I’m coming,” said Vince, glancing at Daron. Then he let Stuart take his arm and lead him inside.

 

They wheeled the biggest cake Vince had ever seen into the middle of the room, and everyone gathered around. On the top, some pastry student had written, “To the next 35,” in a looping, masculine hand. A single candle burned in the center.

 

“Make a wish!” called Trisha.

 

That part was—had always been—easy. Vince blew out the candle and stood back. “I half expected someone to pop out the top.”

 

“She was going to,” said Stuart, leaning heavily on Vince, “until I talked her out of it. A woman her age.”

 

“Who was?” said Vince.

 

Stuart nodded toward the entryway, and Vince followed his gaze.

 

Standing there, her hair freshly dyed, her black tie impeccable, was Hazel.

 

**

 

For the week that she stayed, Hazel slept in Vince’s room, and Vince shared with Stuart.

 

Vince stared up at the ceiling on the first night, the night of the party, and couldn’t sleep. Not since the fleabag motels they had patronized during their spree had they shared a bed, and Vince was out of practice. Not that practice made perfect, in this case. It just made for slightly less uncomfortable.

 

Stuart shifted. He wasn’t asleep either, then.

 

“Why did we stop moving?” said Vince.

 

Stuart didn’t ask what Vince meant, and he didn’t roll over to face him. “Because you didn’t want it,” said Stuart. “That life. Who doesn’t say a word? Not me, you.”

 

“Right,” said Vince, and the silence stretched on for so long that he would have thought Stuart had fallen asleep, only he knew what Stuart looked like, sounded like, asleep, and this wasn’t it. Still, it seemed safe, what with deniability, and Hazel a room over, and the party still fresh. Vince cleared his throat. “I love you, you know.”

 

Silence. Then: “I know. Of course I know. You ooze it, Vince.”

 

Vince very nearly said something.

 

Stuart rolled over onto his back and sighed. “And you know I love you too, anyway.”

 

“Do I?” said Vince.

 

“Yes you fucking do,” said Stuart. “Don’t be such a twat.”

 

“People love their pets, you know,” said Vince. “People love their sheepdogs and their kids and their bloody tennis instructors. People love their brothers.”

 

“And I love you,” said Stuart.

 

Vince reached out and grasped Stuart’s hand. Unbelievably, Stuart squeezed back.

 

“I must be mad,” said Stuart. “Flying your mother here.”

 

“You’re all right,” said Vince. “You’re just fine.”

 

**

 

In 2005, the Doctor came back.

 

Alexander taped it all for Vince, and sent the tapes with an illegible, lipstick-stained message. Vince could only make out Alexander’s signature and the words FUCKING TART midway down the page.

 

Vince had to rent a special player from the DePaul Film Department to watch the tapes, and Stuart watched with him, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. At the end of the first episode he said, “Well, no wonder. This Rose Tyler’s obviously a relation. She’s just as mad for the Doctor as you are.”

 

Vince chucked a pillow at his head.

 

The next day, Vince came home to find Stuart in their sitting room with a policeman. That in itself wasn’t too surprising, although Stuart had fallen out of the habit of bringing people home just as quickly as he’d fallen into it. What was surprising was what they were doing. Namely, the policeman was taking Stuart’s statement and Stuart was holding a bag of frozen peas to his eye. He had a split lip.

 

“What’s this?” said Vince, faintly, from the doorway.

 

“Got mugged,” said Stuart, shrugging.

 

“You what?” said Vince.

 

“Come on in,” said the policeman. “I was just saying that if your partner wants, this could probably be investigated as a hate crime.”

 

Stuart laughed.

 

“A hate crime?” said Vince. “Against him?”

 

“Well, yeah,” said the policeman. “Because, you know. Because. But your partner says it was just a mugging.”

 

“What are we?” Stuart was still laughing. “A law firm?”

 

“It’s an honest mistake,” said Vince. “You just sit there and see to your peas.”

 

Stuart collapsed backwards into the sofa, still letting out a snicker from time to time.

 

The policeman was clearly confused, so Vince put him out of his misery. “My, erm, partner doesn’t like to call anything other than what it is. So I guess it’s a mugging.”

 

Eventually, the policeman finished up his report and left.

 

“He let me go to the toilet,” said Stuart, head thrown back against the back of the sofa, one eye still concealed by the bag and the other squeezed shut. “I nabbed the Vicodin from your tooth extraction.” He opened his good eye and attempted a Texan drawl, complete with two invisible guns drawn and firing. “Pardner.”

 

“ _Were_ you mugged?” said Vince.

 

Stuart just sighed and closed his eye again.

 

Vince had planned on curry for dinner that night, but Stuart’s split lip made that impossible. So, instead, they sat side by side on the couch with spoons and worked their way through a jar of applesauce.

 

“Oh put it in, then,” said Stuart.  “I know you’re dying to.”

 

They watched the second episode of the new Doctor Who.

 

“Maybe I’m not your partner,” said Vince, midway through the episode. “Maybe I’m your companion.” He glanced over at Stuart.

 

Stuart was fast asleep.

 

So Vince picked up the bag of now nearly perfectly mushy peas from the floor and popped it back in the freezer. He cleared away dinner and turned off the television. Then he leaned down. “Stuart,” he said. “Stuart?”

 

Stuart grunted. His eye was ugly, purpling, but Vince had seen worse at school.

 

“Up. Time for bed.”

 

Stuart’s eyes half opened, and he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He followed Vince into his bedroom and sat down heavily on the bed. He yawned, and winced. He scrubbed a hand over his face, and winced. “Fuck,” he said, nearly inaudibly. “It really fucking hurts.”

 

“You’ll be fine,” said Vince. He knelt to tug Stuart’s shoes off. “I’ll get you some

paracetamol.”

 

“It’s acetaminophen here.”

 

“Gesundheit,” said Vince.

 

Stuart took hold of Vince’s shirt at the shoulder and pulled him sharply upward. Vince scrambled to avoid overbalancing and pushed himself up with his hands planted on either side of Stuart’s legs. Stuart kissed him, hard, and their teeth clicked.

 

“Fuck,” Stuart said, again, when he could.

 

Vince didn’t move. Couldn’t, really. “Just so you know,” he said, still leaning in, hands still bracketing Stuart, “if anything does anything like this to you again, I will destroy them. You know I can. You know what I can do. You know me.”

 

“Yes I do,” said Stuart, “companion.” He laughed, hard and not entirely nicely. It was not entirely nice, but…not entirely not-nice either. It was just Stuart, laughing, again.

 

“Right,” said Vince. “I’m staying.”

 

“I might just sleep,” said Stuart, already halfway there, by the looks of things.

 

“I might be all right with that,” said Vince.

 

**

 

In June 2014, Vince opened the door and traveled back in time. “Blimey,” he said. “Sorry. It’s. You just look so much like someone I know when he was. And.”

 

“Hi,” said the boy in the hall. “Vince, is it?”

 

“Yes,” said Vince, slowly, still not quite returned from 1979.

 

“I’m Fred,” the boy said.

 

“All right,” said Vince. “What can I do for you, Fred?”

 

Fred looked at him as if he were thick and that look, too, was just like… “Fred Sullivan?”

 

“Sullivan,” said Vince, a thought at the back of his mind starting just out of reach.

 

“Romey Sullivan’s my mum?” said Fred, with finite patience.

 

Vince knew full well what his flabbergasted face looked like. Stuart had been kind enough to tell him on numerous occasions. Last night, for instance, right after Stuart proved, for the third time, that everything they said about 44-soon-to-be-45-year-olds wasn’t entirely accurate. Vince stood in the door with that look on his face and stared at Fred— _Alfred_ —and tried to find words. “Oh,” he began.

 

“Well, one of ‘em,” Fred was saying. “One of my mums.” But Vince was nowhere near done.

 

“Oh my God.” He fully flung his hands above his head and brought them down on his crown. “Oh. My. _GOD_.”

 

“Who is it?” Stuart called from inside.

 

“It’s only your fucking son!” said Vince.

 

“Yeeees,” said Fred— _Alfred!_ —drawing it out as if Vince were simple. “I’m here for the wedding.”

 

“The…what?” said Vince.

 

“Oh, right,” said Stuart, finally coming into the hall. “I knew there was something I’d forgotten to tell you.”


End file.
